Live-aboard Spleen Harvester.
Day One - First flight - Somewhere over Southeastern United States.
Deployment. If one takes the long view of that word, it means shipping out to perform a job or duty at a distant location - in my personal case, Antarctica - for an extended period of time - again, in my case, seven months for this hitch. However, if one takes the short view, it means cramming my large body into seat 15B on an old MD-80, next to a large student furiously working on a presentation of some kind. It means a short layover - high potential for missed connections - in Dallas / Fort Worth, one of my least favorite places in which to spend a short layover.
Preferences aside, I seem to spend a lot of time at the Dallas / Fort Worth International Airport.
I'll be staying at the grandly appointed Red Lion Hotel in scenic Aurora, Colorado, only forty-five minutes from downtown Denver, where I can catch a nap, run on the treadmill, or take a soak in the outdoor hot tub. Time permitting, I'll have the opportunity to run up a rather sizable bar tab as well, before heading back to the airport, putting on the fire costume, and enthusiastically engaging in a one-day prescribed recertification burn at a state-of-the-art training facility.
And then more airplanes, and more airports.
Second flight. Just left Dallas, after a tiny little layover. Tiny. Walked from gate A-12 to gate A-34 and made it just in time to board a second MD-80. Strangely enough, I'm sitting in the same seat as the last MD-80, but this time next to a young woman, and behind a matching pair of God's Little Miracles. By the way they're screaming, it seems that they are trying very diligently to get God's attention.
“Hey! Hey! Over here! Hey God! Hey! God! Over here! Baaaaaaaaah! God!”
Or something like that.
I had been hoping that I'd have enough time on the ground to grab some lunch, but that didn't happen. It's 1517 (EST) and I haven't had breakfast yet. This always happens, and I always end up having Taco Bell at the Denver Airport.
The beverage and snack cart is making it's way down the aisle. I'm very thankful. My mouth tastes like I've been licking a bear's asshole. I could use a cola.
Leaving is always difficult. Today, no less so than any other time, and harder than most. Seven months becomes a long time when you have something to go home for, and that seven months is longer today than it will ever be again.
Had the good fortune and great timing of running into my Stepmother at the airport this morning. Had a cup of coffee, she had tea, and we were able to chat for a half hour or so. It was a good thing. The coffee wasn't so bad, either.
As I see it, the largest problem with sitting in an airplane's exit row is that you are, logically, required to sit amongst the kind of people who insist on sitting in the airplane's exit row. I have long since given up trying for these coveted seats with their few extra inches of precious leg room due to the nature of the company I was forced to keep, the Type-A, Alpha Male highly-competitive - and quite often Napoleonic - ego-driven members of the Coffee Generation who absolutely must have this commodity as a symbol of their superiority over their fellow traveler. Of course not everyone who sits in an exit row falls into this mold, but I have logged enough air miles over my lifetime to feel confident in the generalization that nearly every exit row will contain at least oneone of these dirty bastards.
This percentage increases on any flight that features 'festival' or unassigned seating. I'm looking right at you, Southwest. Don't try to deny it.
So I sit in my cramped and narrow seat - a steel door and a few spikes shy of an Iron Maiden - with my computer on my lap, listening to the serene hopelandic of Sigur Ros and try to pass the time as best I can while ignoring the stiffness in my knees and back. I spend as much time as I can walking up and down the aisle, to work out the cramps and because I learned an important lesson from Tedy Bruschi.
I make up stories to pass along to those sitting in the seat next to me, if they happen to be the chatty type - I usually don't say a word unless it's a Red Eye flight and I've killed some time at the airport bar before boarding. I have had many unusual jobs over the years - Rectal Photographer, Spleen Harvester, Live-Aboard Houseboat Painter being a few that I remember. On one flight, when I was relentlessly crowded into the bulkhead by the chatty man next to me, I explained how I had just finished a spectacularly challenging and intense day as a Sewer Inspector / Technician and had to rush straight from work to the Airport to avoid missing the plane.
I had all the space that I needed for the next couple of hours.
On this trip, I went with a Cavalcade of World Religion theme, wearing a Creation Museum shirt with a Muslim hat and a string of Buddhist beads. I had a challenging and intense day and had to rush out of the apartment without my Hebrew prayer shawl.
It passes the time, and allows me to listen to my music in peace.
Deployment. If one takes the long view of that word, it means shipping out to perform a job or duty at a distant location - in my personal case, Antarctica - for an extended period of time - again, in my case, seven months for this hitch. However, if one takes the short view, it means cramming my large body into seat 15B on an old MD-80, next to a large student furiously working on a presentation of some kind. It means a short layover - high potential for missed connections - in Dallas / Fort Worth, one of my least favorite places in which to spend a short layover.
Preferences aside, I seem to spend a lot of time at the Dallas / Fort Worth International Airport.
I'll be staying at the grandly appointed Red Lion Hotel in scenic Aurora, Colorado, only forty-five minutes from downtown Denver, where I can catch a nap, run on the treadmill, or take a soak in the outdoor hot tub. Time permitting, I'll have the opportunity to run up a rather sizable bar tab as well, before heading back to the airport, putting on the fire costume, and enthusiastically engaging in a one-day prescribed recertification burn at a state-of-the-art training facility.
And then more airplanes, and more airports.
Second flight. Just left Dallas, after a tiny little layover. Tiny. Walked from gate A-12 to gate A-34 and made it just in time to board a second MD-80. Strangely enough, I'm sitting in the same seat as the last MD-80, but this time next to a young woman, and behind a matching pair of God's Little Miracles. By the way they're screaming, it seems that they are trying very diligently to get God's attention.
“Hey! Hey! Over here! Hey God! Hey! God! Over here! Baaaaaaaaah! God!”
Or something like that.
I had been hoping that I'd have enough time on the ground to grab some lunch, but that didn't happen. It's 1517 (EST) and I haven't had breakfast yet. This always happens, and I always end up having Taco Bell at the Denver Airport.
The beverage and snack cart is making it's way down the aisle. I'm very thankful. My mouth tastes like I've been licking a bear's asshole. I could use a cola.
Leaving is always difficult. Today, no less so than any other time, and harder than most. Seven months becomes a long time when you have something to go home for, and that seven months is longer today than it will ever be again.
Had the good fortune and great timing of running into my Stepmother at the airport this morning. Had a cup of coffee, she had tea, and we were able to chat for a half hour or so. It was a good thing. The coffee wasn't so bad, either.
As I see it, the largest problem with sitting in an airplane's exit row is that you are, logically, required to sit amongst the kind of people who insist on sitting in the airplane's exit row. I have long since given up trying for these coveted seats with their few extra inches of precious leg room due to the nature of the company I was forced to keep, the Type-A, Alpha Male highly-competitive - and quite often Napoleonic - ego-driven members of the Coffee Generation who absolutely must have this commodity as a symbol of their superiority over their fellow traveler. Of course not everyone who sits in an exit row falls into this mold, but I have logged enough air miles over my lifetime to feel confident in the generalization that nearly every exit row will contain at least oneone of these dirty bastards.
This percentage increases on any flight that features 'festival' or unassigned seating. I'm looking right at you, Southwest. Don't try to deny it.
So I sit in my cramped and narrow seat - a steel door and a few spikes shy of an Iron Maiden - with my computer on my lap, listening to the serene hopelandic of Sigur Ros and try to pass the time as best I can while ignoring the stiffness in my knees and back. I spend as much time as I can walking up and down the aisle, to work out the cramps and because I learned an important lesson from Tedy Bruschi.
I make up stories to pass along to those sitting in the seat next to me, if they happen to be the chatty type - I usually don't say a word unless it's a Red Eye flight and I've killed some time at the airport bar before boarding. I have had many unusual jobs over the years - Rectal Photographer, Spleen Harvester, Live-Aboard Houseboat Painter being a few that I remember. On one flight, when I was relentlessly crowded into the bulkhead by the chatty man next to me, I explained how I had just finished a spectacularly challenging and intense day as a Sewer Inspector / Technician and had to rush straight from work to the Airport to avoid missing the plane.
I had all the space that I needed for the next couple of hours.
On this trip, I went with a Cavalcade of World Religion theme, wearing a Creation Museum shirt with a Muslim hat and a string of Buddhist beads. I had a challenging and intense day and had to rush out of the apartment without my Hebrew prayer shawl.
It passes the time, and allows me to listen to my music in peace.